Hunting Sketches(狩猎杂记)

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HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS

Hunting Sketches

by Anthony Trollope

HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS

THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND

DOESN'T LIKE IT.

It seems to be odd, at first sight, that there should be any such men as

these; but their name and number is legion. If we were to deduct from the

hunting-crowd farmers, and others who hunt because hunting is brought to

their door, of the remainder we should find that the "men who don't like it"

have the preponderance. It is pretty much the same, I think, with all

amusements. How many men go to balls, to races, to the theatre, how

many women to concerts and races, simply because it is the thing to do?

They have perhaps, a vague idea that they may ultimately find some joy in

the pastime; but, though they do the thing constantly, they never like it. Of

all such men, the hunting men are perhaps the most to be pitied.

They are easily recognized by any one who cares to scrutinize the men

around him in the hunting field. It is not to be supposed that all those who,

in common parlance, do not ride, are to be included among the number of

hunting men who don't like it. Many a man who sticks constantly to the

roads and lines of gates, who, from principle, never looks at a fence, is

much attached to hunting. Some of those who have borne great names as

Nimrods in our hunting annals would as life have led a forlorn- hope as

put a horse at a flight of hurdles. But they, too, are known; and though the

nature of their delight is a mystery to straight-going men, it is manifest

enough, that they do like it. Their theory of hunting is at any rate plain.

They have an acknowledged system, and know what they are doing. But

the men who don't like it, have no system, and never know distinctly what

is their own aim. During some portion of their career they commonly try

to ride hard, and sometimes for a while they will succeed. In short spurts,

while the cherry-brandy prevails, they often have small successes; but

even with the assistance of a spur in the head they never like it.

HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS

Dear old John Leech! What an eye he had for the man who hunts and

doesn't like it ! But for such, as a pictorial chronicler of the hunting field

he would have had no fame. Briggs, I fancy, in his way did like it. Briggs

was a full-blooded, up-apt, awkward, sanguine man, who was able to like

anything, from gin and water upwards. But with how many a wretched

companion of Briggs' are we not familiar? men as to whom any girl of

eighteen would swear from the form of his visage and the carriage of his

legs as he sits on his horse that he was seeking honour where honour was

not to be found, and looking for pleasure in places where no pleasure lay

for him.

But the man who hunts and doesn't like it, has his moments of

gratification, and finds a source of pride in his penance. In the summer,

hunting does much for him. He does not usually take much personal care

of his horses, as he is probably a town man and his horses are summered

by a keeper of hunting stables; but he talks of them. He talks of them

freely, and the keeper of the hunting stables is occasionally forced to write

to him. And he can run down to look at his nags, and spend a few hours

eating bad mutton chops, walking about the yards and paddocks, and,

bleeding halfcrowns through the nose. In all this there is a delight which

offers some compensation for his winter misery to our friend who hunts

and doesn't like it.

He finds it pleasant to talk of his horses especially to young women,

with whom, perhaps, the ascertained fact of his winter employment does

give him some credit. It is still something to be a hunting man even yet,

though the multiplicity of railways and the existing plethora of money has

so increased the number of sportsmen, that to keep a nag or two near some

well-known station, is nearly as common as to die. But the delight of these

martyrs is at the highest in the presence of their tailors; or, higher still,

perhaps, in that of their bootmakers. The hunting man does receive some

honour from him who makes his breeches; and, with a well-balanced sense

of justice, the tailor's foreman is, I think, more patient, more admiring,

more demonstrative in his assurances, more ready with his bit of chalk,

when handling the knee of the man who doesn't like the work, than he ever

HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS

is with the customer who comes to him simply because he wants some

clothes fit for the saddle. The judicious conciliating tradesman knows that

compensation should be given, and he helps to give it. But the visits to the

bootmaker are better still. The tailor persists in telling his customer how

his breeches should be made, and after what fashion they should be worn;

but the bootmaker will take his orders meekly. If not ruffled by paltry

objections as to the fit of the foot, he will accede to any amount of

instructions as to the legs and tops. And then a new pair of top boots is a

pretty toy; Costly, perhaps, if needed only as a toy, but very pretty, and

more decorative in a gentleman's dressing- room than any other kind of

garment. And top boots, when multiplied in such a locality, when seen in a

phalanx tell such pleasant lies on their owner's behalf. While your

breeches are as dumb in their retirement as though you had not paid for

them, your conspicuous boots are eloquent with a thousand tongues! There

is pleasure found, no doubt, in this.

As the season draws nigh the delights become vague, and still more

vague; but, nevertheless, there are delights. Getting up at six o'clock in

November to go down to Bletchley by an early train is not in itself

pleasant, but on the opening morning, on the few first opening mornings,

there is a promise about the thing which invigorates and encourages the

early riser. He means to like it this year if he can. He has still some

undefined notion that his period of pleasure will now come. He has not, as

yet, accepted the adverse verdict which his own nature has given against

him in this matter of hunting, and he gets into his early tub with acme

glow of satisfaction. And afterwards it is nice to find himself bright with

mahogany tops, buff-tinted breeches, and a pink coat. The ordinary

habiliments of an English gentleman are so sombre that his own eye is

gratified, and he feels that he has placed himself in the vanguard of society

by thus shining in his apparel. And he will ride this year! He is fixed to

that purpose. He will ride straight; and, if possible, he will like it.

But the Ethiop cannot change his skin, nor can any man add a cubit to

his stature. He doesn't like it, and all around him in the field know how it

is with him; he himself knows how it is with others like himself, and he

HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS

congregates with his brethren. The period of his penance has come upon

him. He has to pay the price of those pleasant interviews with his

tradesmen. He has to expiate the false boasts made to his female cousins.

That row of boots cannot be made to shine in his chamber for nothing. The

hounds have found, and the fox is away. Men are fastening on their flat-

topped hats and feeling themselves in their stirrups. Horses are hot for the

run, and the moment for liking it has come, if only it were possible!

But at moments such as these something has to be done. The man who

doesn't like it, let him dislike it ever so much, Cannot check his horse and

simply ride back to the hunting stables. He understands that were he to do

that, he must throw up his cap at once and resign. Nor can he trot easily

along the roads with the fat old country gentleman who is out on his rough

cob, and who, looking up to the wind and remembering the position of

adjacent coverts, will give a good guess as to the direction in which the

field will move. No; he must make an effort. The time of his penance has

come, and the penance must be borne. There is a spark of pluck about him,

though unfortunately he has brought it to bear in a wrong direction. The

blood still runs at his heart, and he resolves that he will ride, if only he

could tell which way.

The stout gentleman on the cob has taken the road to the left with a

few companions; but our friend knows that the stout gentleman has a little

game of his own which will not be suitable for one who intends to ride.

Then the crowd in front has divided itself. Those to the right rush down a

hill towards a brook with a ford. One or two, men whom he hates with an

intensity of envy, have jumped the brook, and have settled to their work.

Twenty or thirty others are hustling themselves through the water. The

time for a judicious start on that side is already gone. But others, a crowd

of others, are facing the big ploughed field immediately before them. That

is the straightest riding, and with them he goes. Why has the scent lain so

hot over the up- turned heavy ground? Why do they go so fast at this the

very first blush of the morning ? Fortune is always against him, and the

horse is pulling him through the mud as though the brute meant to drag his

arm out of the socket. At the first fence, as he is steadying himself, a

HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS

butcher passes him roughly in the jump and nearly takes away the side of

his top boot. He is knocked half out of his saddle, and in that condition

scrambles through. When he has regained his equilibrium he sees the

happy butcher going into the field beyond. He means to curse the butcher

when he catches him, but the butcher is safe. A field and a half before him

he still sees the tail hounds, and renews his effort. He has meant to like it

to-day, and he will. So he rides at the next fence boldly, where the butcher

has left his mark, and does it pretty well, with a slight struggle. Why is it

that he can never get over a ditch without some struggle in his saddle,

some scramble with his horse? Why does he curse the poor animal so

constantly, unless it be that he cannot catch the butcher? Now he rushes at

a gate which others have opened for him, but rushes too late and catches

his leg. Mad with pain, he nearly gives it up, but the spark of pluck is still

there, and with throbbing knee he perseveres. How he hates it! It is all

detestable now. He cannot hold his horse because of his gloves, and he

cannot get them off. The sympathetic beast knows that his master is

unhappy, and makes himself unhappy and troublesome in consequence.

Our friend is still going, riding wildly, but still keeping a grain of caution

for his fences. He has not been down yet, but has barely saved himself

more than once. The ploughs are very deep, and his horse, though still

boring at him, pants heavily. Oh, that there might come a check, or that the

brute of a fox might happily go to ground ! But no! The ruck of the hunt is

far away from him in front, and the game is running steadily straight for

some well known though still distant protection. But the man who doesn't

like it still sees a red coat before him, and perseveres in chasing the wearer

of it. The solitary red coat becomes distant, and still more distant from him,

but he goes on while he can yet keep the line in which that red coat has

ridden. He must hurry himself, however, or he will be lost to humanity,

and will be alone. He must hurry himself, but his horse now desires to

hurry no more. So he puts his spurs to the brute savagely, and then at some

little fence, some ignoble ditch, they come down together in the mud, and

the question of any further effort is saved for the rider. When he arises the

red coat is out of sight, and his own horse is half across the field before

HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS

him. In such a position, is it possible that a man should like it ?

About four o'clock in the afternoon, when the other men are coming in,

he turns up at the hunting stables, and nobody asks him any questions. He

may have been doing fairly well for what anybody knows, and, as he says

nothing of himself, his disgrace is at any rate hidden. Why should he tell

that he had been nearly an hour on foot trying to catch his horse, that he

had sat himself down on a bank and almost cried, and that he had drained

his flask to the last drop before one o'clock ? No one need know the extent

of his miseries. And no one does know how great is the misery endured by

those who hunt regularly, and who do not like it.

HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS

THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND

DOES LIKE IT.

The man who hunts and does like it is an object of keen envy to the

man who hunts and doesn't; but he, too, has his own miseries, and I am not

prepared to say that they are always less aggravating than those endured

by his less ambitious brother in the field. He, too, when he comes to make

up his account, when he brings his hunting to book and inquires whether

his whistle has been worth its price, is driven to declare that vanity and

vexation of spirit have been the prevailing characteristics of his hunting

life. On how many evenings has he returned contented with his sport ?

How many days has he declared to have been utterly wasted ? How often

have frost and snow, drought and rain, wind and sunshine, impeded his

plans ? for to a hunting man frost, snow, drought, rain, wind and

sunshine, will all come amiss. Then, when the one run of the season comes,

he is not there! He has been idle and has taken a liberty with the day; or he

has followed other gods and gone with strange hounds. With sore ears and

bitter heart he hears the exaggerated boastings of his comrades, and almost

swears that he will have no more of it. At the end of the season he tells

himself that the season's amusement has cost him five hundred pounds;

that he has had one good day, three days that were not bad, and that all the

rest have been vanity and vexation of spirit. After all, it may be a question

whether the man who hunts and doesn't like it does not have the best of it.

When we consider what is endured by the hunting man the wonder is

that any man should like it. In the old days of Squire Western, and in the

old days too since the time of Squire Western, the old days of thirty years

since, the hunting man had his hunting near to him. He was a country

gentleman who considered himself to be energetic if he went out twice a

week, and in doing this he rarely left his house earlier for that purpose

than he would leave it for others. At certain periods of the year he if ho

went out twice a he rarely left his house than he would leave it periods of

HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS

the year he would, perhaps, be out before dawn; but then the general

habits of his life conduced to early rising; and his distances were short. If

he kept a couple of horses for the purpose he was well mounted, and these

horses were available for other uses. He rode out and home, jogging

slowly along the roads, and was a martyr to no ambition. All that has been

changed now. The man who hunts and likes it, either takes a small hurting

seat away from the comforts of his own home, or he locates himself

miserably at an inn, or he undergoes the purgatory of daily journeys up

and down from London, doing that for his hunting which no

consideration of money-making would induce him to do for his business.

His hunting requires from him everything, his time, his money, his social

hours, his rest, his sweet morning sleep; nay, his very dinners have to be

sacrificed to this Moloch!

Let us follow him on an ordinary day. His groom comes to his bed-

chamber at seven o'clock, and tells him that it has frozen during the night.

If he be a London man, using the train for his hunting, he knows nothing

of the frost, and does not learn whether the day be practicable or not till he

finds himself down in the country. But we will suppose our friend to be

located in some hunting district, and accordingly his groom visits him with

tidings. "Is it freezing now?" he asks from under the bedclothes. And even

the man who does like it at such moments almost wishes that the answer

should be plainly in the affirmative. Then swiftly again to the arms of

Morpheus he might take himself, and ruffle his temper no further on that

morning! He desires, at any rate, a decisive answer. To be or not to be as

regards that day's hurting is what he now wants to know. But that is

exactly what the groom cannot tell him. " It's just a thin crust of frost, sir,

and the s'mometer is a standing at the pint." That is the answer which the

man makes, and on that he has to come to a decision! For half an hour he

lies doubting while his water is getting cold, and then sends for his man

again. The thermometer is still standing at the point, but the man has tried

the crust with his heel and found it to be very thin. The man who hunts

and likes it scorns his ease, and resolves that he will at any rate persevere.

He tumbles into his tub, and a little before nine comes out to his breakfast,

HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS

still doubting sorely whether or no the day "will do." There he, perhaps,

meets one or two others like himself, and learns that the men who hunt

and don't like it are still warm in their beds. On such mornings as these,

and such mornings are very many, the men who hunt and do not like it

certainly have the best of it. The man who hunts and does like it takes

himself out to some kitchen-garden or neighbouring paddock, and kicks at

the ground himself. Certainly there is a crust, a very manifest crust.

Though he puts up in the country, he has to go sixteen miles to the meet,

and has no means of knowing whether or no the hounds will go out. "

Jorrocks always goes if there's a chance," says one fellow, speaking of the

master. " I don't know," says our friend; " he's a deal slower at it than he

used to be. For my part, I wish Jorrocks would go; he's getting too old."

Then he bolts a mutton chop and a couple of eggs hurriedly, and submits

himself to be carried off in the trap.

Though he is half an hour late at the meet, no hounds have as yet come,

and he begins to curse his luck. A non-hunting day, a day that turns out to

be no day for hunting purposes, begun in this way, is of all days the most

melancholy. What is a man to do with himself who has put himself into his

boots and breeches, and who then finds himself, by one o'clock, landed

back at his starting- point without employment ? Who under such

circumstances can apply himself to any salutary employment ? Cigars and

stable-talk are all that remain to him; and it is well for him if he can refrain

from the additional excitement of brandy and water.

But on the present occasion we will not presume that our friend has

fallen into so deep a bathos of misfortune. At twelve o'clock Tom appears,

with the hounds following slowly at his heels; and a dozen men, angry

with impatience, fly at him with assurances that there has been no sign of

frost since ten o'clock. " Ain't there ?" says Tom; " you look at the north

sides of the banks, and see how you'd like it." Some one makes an uncivil

remark as to the north sides of the banks, and wants to know when old

Jorrocks is coming. " The squire 'll be here time enough," says Tom. And

then there takes place that slow walking up and down of the hounds,

which on such mornings always continues for half an hour. Let him who

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